Peripatetic, Writer, Harbinger of Mirth
Keychain,
Tiny desire for identity
In a cookie-cutter world.
But this one’s “so you,”
Just like thousands
Have thought before.
Original–truly novel–
Frightens the close-minded…
And we’re all close-minded.
So we stick to
The same safe deviance
As everyone else.
But it brings you joy.
What more do you seek?
What more is there?
It’s only two dollars.
Just buy it already.
Starting at puberty, it becomes socially unacceptable to exchange touch with anyone but romantic partners. This is bad. Touch is calming. It’s connecting. It’s fundamental to proper growth and development. Touch should happen more.
On a road trip with a friend, I hadn’t touched another person in a week. That’s a long fucking time. A week without touch is a cruel punishment that I wouldn’t subject on any animal. It’s not even a sexual thing – I just wanted physical contact. I asked if I could lie on my buddy’s lap. He said sure, so I did. Our conversation continued. I felt human. It was great.
Why does our society suppress touch? I understand the moratorium across gender and the requirements that touch be consensual. But why is it weird (or labeled “gay”) for guys hanging out to touch each other? We’re primates. Primates touch. Even gorillas – the biggest and strongest among us – pick nits out of each other’s fur.
I’m not sure why, but I don’t like it. I also can’t see a good reason against it, so I’m going to touch more.
At 9:11am, the morning’s not-funniest time, I slipped 50mg of caffeine past the tape on my mouth before crawling back into the safety of my dreams. Another hour-and-a-quarter passed before my bunkmate awoke, only after which did I first leave my bed. How much of this time was spent avoiding the world?
I’m coming off a cold. Perhaps that’s why I’ve been sleeping so much. I’ve also been emotionally exhausted, overcoming a childhood trauma and rebuilding after a breakup.
My bed is warm. My bed feels safe. In it, the world feels far away. My mind moseys, wisting aimlessly from place to place. I like that safety. I like that oblivion. I live for that vacuum between conscious and gone.
When we dated, I hated the Satan we created,
But being dumped has lumped those bumps into the rough, tough suffering of a motherfucker.
After a month or two or three or four, I’ll finally admit I wanted you more
Than I was willing—how thrilling and chilling,
But I was the villain, or maybe I still am.
The fast past we lasted unmasked a part of my heart; it started smarting.
That caressing mess tested this repressed hesitant lesser
Who now piles miles of style on humble, tumbling mumbles to crumble your wall, crawling his all
To your mind-wracking shack, where a taxing hacks dances without pants, hands landing in bands on yours, the shores of sores that hastened mace to our faces, disgracing us apace,
Then the end, when I bended to mend but you send us friends, me in tender shreds.
I’m sad and mad for a lad’s behavior, but you’re no savior.
It’s unfair, but sharing care would tear at you more, so formerly yours will be sore for the pair.
When you miss kissing me, sissy, I’ll be listening, glistening with desire, no liar—
Just a failed male who paled in your presence, too hesitant.
I’m told more bold would leave me cold but I’m old enough to scoff.
It’s rough to be cuffed to a shelf of hell. Who can tell when I’ll fell
For another lover who recovers my suffering.
Just empty space—dear Lord, what a waste! This place doesn’t taste of your scent so I’m bent with pent up emotion, an ocean of notions.
No lies, just a tired writer’s inspired cries,
Pining in lines to know you’re trying too—
It’s hard for you. You miss me and list me as a risk to stop kissing.
Now shown, I bemoan roaming the loneliest road,
No shores of your pores that tore at my core.
So hey, Lady grey, I’d pay you today: explain pain in a way
That tames this crew, say you I matter too.
What do I do when I don’t want to write?
I write about how I’m annoyed.
Dozens of writings begin with the phrase,
“I don’t want to write today.”
After a while it evolves into poem
Or into emotional quandary.
The process can feel like picking a scab
Or bleaching ratty laundry.
Sometimes I only know five minutes in
That my first few beginnings were flounders
Eventually arriving at the place in my mind
Where seconds are minutes are hours.
Time stands still and speeds along
As I’m lost in expressing myself.
I nibble at feelings, explore one of my sides
Before putting it back on the shelf.
Most of the time I write end-of-day;
It typically feels like a chore.
Why do I do it? Why write every day?
Because that’s what a writer is for.
A stabilizing force, it keeps me sane,
Reminding me life has no breaks.
Even if just one sentence: “I don’t wish to write,”
I write for writing’s sake.
When I sleep poorly, I harm myself,
not with pills or knives
but doughy pizza and poker.
These might sound small—verily they are,
but I’ve avoided loving any people who die
and only been once dumped,
on my quest for #2.
Still a kid, a spoiled millennial,
these problems equate to self-inflicted boredom.
The world will crush me. It crushes us all.
Build your ark. Recession’s a-comin’.
Julian Wise 